


Overground

by Culumacilinte



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Baby Boosh, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, M/M, friends with weird blurry boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noel has a thing for Julian's feet. More or less. It's all a bit weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overground

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to woodironbone for the beta job!

‘You’ve got a thing,’ Julian accuses, assembling the words with sludgy laboriousness and depositing them somewhere around his knees for Noel’s inspection. 

‘I don’t have a thing.’ Except Noel doesn’t look up from Julian’s feet, which he’s been studying with a kind of devoted interest Julian has rarely seen from him for the past-- his brain wants to say half an hour, but it can’t be that long, can it? Time has been failing to register as a sensible (sense-able?) thing for-- hah, and there’s a thought it’s impossible to finish satisfactorily-- a while now. 

He’s laid his hand along the sole, fingers and thumb stretching with visible effort, like a kid at piano lessons, trying vainly to span the distance from Julian’s heel to his toes. 

‘Look how long they are! Longer’n my hands.’ 

‘They’re feet,’ says Julian, feeling as though he’s missed something. ‘They’re supposed to be longer than hands.’ 

Julian sometimes thinks that the world must look different to Noel. Not in a poetic, metaphorical way, but literally, scientifically; that the rods and cones in Noel’s eyes can see levels of colour and nuance that Julian’s brain couldn’t even begin to process, that his synapses would throw up their hands and shrug at. It’s close enough to Julian’s vision that they can agree on a shared reality, but really it’s only that agreement which sustains it. Sometimes that seems the only possible explanation. He wonders what Noel is seeing as he peers at Julian’s feet, bending in with his eyes all squinched up and his nose wrinkled like a scholar over a troubling palimpsest. Julian just sees his foot. His leg twitches, knee bouncing up like he’s been surprised by a doctor with one of those rubber reflex hammers as Noel’s stubby fingertips brush ticklishly over the arch. 

‘You’ve got a piss thing,’ Julian points out. ‘A foot thing is a lot less weird than a piss thing.’ 

Noel still doesn’t look up, focussed on tracing out the exact shape of the divot between the fourth and pinky toes. ‘Yeah, but a piss thing’s funny, innit? Foot thing’s just pedestrian.’ Julian suddenly convulses with a cackle at the pun which Noel doesn’t seem to have noticed. A few heads turn at the unexpected whoop, and then turn away again; just Barratt and Fielding being their usual, strangely self-absorbed duo. ‘CEOs who buy their secretaries Jimmy Choos and have them step on their balls.’ 

Julian can’t seem to stop cackling, and under the choking laughs wells up a sudden, desperate fondness for Noel. What a ridiculous fucking imp of a man. ‘You have got a thing,’ he wheezes, once he has enough breath for it. 

Noel rolls his eyes, finally looking up. The expression makes him look extraordinarily young and bratty. ‘ _You’ve_ got a thing,’ he rejoins cleverly, and nods significantly. Julian looks down. 

‘I don’t.’ He _does_ have an erection, though. Not a full on hang-your-towel on it affair, but definitely a half mongrel at least. He frowns. He’s _pretty_ sure he can blame that on the E they took earlier. At least, he took an E earlier. He squints down at Noel. 

‘You had an E earlier, yeah? 

‘Yeah, why?’ 

Alternately, Julian reflects, the E might explain Noel’s current preoccupation with his feet. Not to mention his own vague desire to _really aggressively_ hug him and make sure Noel knows how appreciative Julian is of his general… existence. Admittedly, he doesn’t know about the feet, but that is definitely an E thing. 

And then Noel ducks down and sucks Julian’s middle toe right into his mouth, and the sensation is so strange and wet and tickly that he _shrieks_ and accidentally kicks Noel in the face. 

~~~~~~~ 

‘Dear, sweet _fuck_ , your feet smell revolting,’ Noel pronounces, and Julian blinks. 

He’s not particularly offended, more amused than anything; they’ve lived together, after all; the smell of Julian’s feet should not be news. (And even considering that, in the context of past flatshares, he maintains that Lee's feet smell worse than his). ‘Yes?’ he says. ‘And?’ 

Noel wrinkles his nose demonstratively. ‘This is why I like you better in the summer.’ 

Julian laughs outright at that. ‘In the summer, you complain that my sandals make me look like a cut-price hippy.’ 

‘Your dad sandals are vile,’ Noel agrees, ‘but at least they don’t make your feet sweat.’ 

Feet sweat, Julian doesn’t see the big deal, but it is undeniably amusing to wiggle his sweaty, smelly feet at Noel, who pulls faces and whacks at them. 

‘Right, you get your feet out me face; I’m sorting you out.’ 

‘You’re gonna sort me out?’ Julian can’t help laying the amused innuendo on thickly. He and Noel flirt as easy as breathing; most of the time, it doesn’t mean anything. They’ve talked about it, too; boozy late-night wonderings when they're too punch-drunk for it to be weird, trying to determine whether they do actually want to sleep with each other, and coming out the other end _pretty_ sure they don’t. And a good thing; that has the potential to make all the snogging and bumming that seems to end up in their shows a bit awkward. 

Now, Noel laughs as he gets up, putting on his Cockney geezer voice and calling over his shoulder as he saunters off to the loo. ‘Boy like you needs a good seeing-to, squire.’ 

‘You try it and I’ll come atcha, just you wait.’ 

‘At me, or in me? Or on me?’ Noel drops the voice. ‘Wotsit, that filthy Japanese stuff…? Bukkake.’ 

‘That’s tentacles, innit?’ 

Noel’s cackle comes over the noise of rummaging, the particular sound of plastic bottles on tiled bathroom floor. ‘Hah, now there’s a thought!’ 

‘Do I want to know?’ 

‘Sea monsters,’ Noel announces enigmatically, and Julian watches in bemusement as he returns with his hands full of mysterious tubs and bottles and a much less mysterious washcloth, which is dripping on the rug. He promptly plonks himself down in front of Julian, grabbing one foot and setting to wiping it down with the damp washcloth. He tuts as he does so, which Julian thinks is a little rich. Noel might look like a delicate ladyboy, but his room smells just as much of dirty socks and old pants as any man’s. He just cares more about hiding it than Julian. 

'Sea monsters?' 

'S a rich topic, innit? We've done yetis, reckon one of us ought to fuck a mermaid next.' 

'Merman, surely,' Julian says wryly, and Noel laughs, lacing his slippery fingers through Julian's toes and rubbing to work the lotion in. It's an... odd sensation, uncomfortably evocative and not quite ticklish. Julian's toes curl; the joints crackle. 

'Could be either with me, couldn't it?' Noel flutters his lashes up at Julian in an exaggeratedly girlish fashion, and Julian snorts. 

'Tart. Sea monster, though, might be a bit of both, mightn't it? You get all sorts of hermaphroditic fish and... things.' 

Noel's been growing into his own (admittedly often ridiculous) style since the too-small button ups and too-big slacks Julian first saw him doing stand-up in, and increasingly it's the sort of thing one might well describe as _a bit of both_. Noel, accordingly, looks rather flattered at the suggestion, eyes narrowing in thoughtful intrigue. Julian's belly glows warmly for a moment with the pleasure of having struck the right chord. It's hardly rare, with Noel, but there's still nothing quite like it. 

They fall silent for a while, Julian holding himself still and watching as Noel fondles his feet, rubbing in various lotions, wiping them away, wrinkling his nose and tutting at the state of Julian's toenails. It's not that it feels _bad_ , but it is a strange sort of intimacy, even for them; Julian feels torn between just melting shamelessly into it and straight-up bolting. 

‘You gonna dry ‘em with your hair afterwards?’ Julian asks mildly, as Noel looks like he's moving towards finishing up, and Noel snorts. 

‘Get fucked!’ 

Julian grins. Under the mock outrage, Noel’s got a familiar expression on; Julian can practically see the ideas putting down roots in his brain. 

‘Forget tentacles, that’d be a weird kink.’ 

‘What, if I could only get off with my partners emulating obscure religious figure?’ 

‘Knew there was a reason you went for me. Saw me doin’ my Jesus bit and went, ah, there’s the one.’ 

‘One day he shall be my concubine,’ Julian intones, dropping his voice into something posh and stentorian, an over-the-top movie villain voice. ‘And lo, he shall wash my feet, and anoint them with balms--' 

Noel bursts into giggles. 'Scented oils?' 

'-- and liniments, and-- yes, those too--' He pauses, directing an exaggerated frown down at Noel, who’s hunched over with laughing, forehead nearly touching the top of Julian’s newly cleaned and lotioned foot. 'Silence, concubine!' 

The giggles turn into cackles, and Noel sticks his tongue out childishly. 

’Perhaps,’ Julian addresses an invisible camera, ‘I should have been more discerning in my choice of concubines; this one exhibits a distinct lack of respect.’ 

Noel nearly shouts with laughter-- ‘Hah!’-- before gathering up all his supplies and tripping off back to the bathroom to put them away. 

~~~~~~~ 

Noel takes to doodling foot monsters, in pencil and sharpie and sloppy acrylic paints. Most of them are only just barely recogniseable as feet; they've got bums or tentacles or ears, strange and misshapen. The foot thing is clearly some kind of grotesque fascination generally, regardless of Noel's individual feelings on his or Julian's individual feet. 

On one occasion, Julian finds Noel painting a confused sphere of feet and eyes of all shapes and colours. He watches for a few moments as Noel switches out brushes for one of the few he's got clamped between his teeth. 

'It's like a foot cherub,' Julian comments eventually, and Noel looks up briefly, the blank, half-attention of someone too busy with a project to invest in actual curiosity, before turning back to his painting. 

'Eh?' 

'Cherubs, cherubim. Like angels?' Noel drags a brush over the paper, and the humped edge of the brushstroke glistens wetly as he lays down the outline of a heel. 'They were just supposed to be big, terrifying balls of wings and eyes.' 

'Oh, yeah!' And there's Noel's attention back, grabbed by the subject which has a novelty Julian's presence does not. 'Like that mad Hillier stuff.’ 

Julian doesn't know who that is, but he'll go with it. He supposes he must do it too, about his own nerdy passions, but Noel drops references like he forgets Julian didn't go to art college too. So he just shrugs wryly. 'If you like.' 

Noel still isn't really paying attention to him, but he catches the tone enough that he glances up, just for a moment, to find Julian's eyes and grin. It’s both amused and faintly apologetic, and Julian huffs a little laugh, and leaves Noel to it. 

The weird foot art is infectious; it's giving Julian a thing too. Or, not really a thing, but he starts noticing feet, which he certainly never did before, other than a certain over-familiarity with the tops of people's shoes from the amount of looking down that a lifetime of social awkwardness necessitates. But suddenly now he’s _noticing_ , actively; making mental notes of what kinds of shoes people wear, or the details of their feet if they’re not. Rich has surprisingly delicate ankles, and his middle toes are longer than his big ones; Dave’s toes curl against the floor when he’s not wearing shoes like he needs the extra help gripping. Occasionally, in the city, there will be people just out and about on the street barefoot, and Julian will find himself stupidly arrested by it. 

He’s got no designs on Noel’s position as resident artist of the Boosh, but he can doodle as well as the next man. The margins of his notebooks when he was at school had certainly seen their share of UFOs, and lovingly (or, being honest, lustfully) rendered guitars, and vaguely sinister and anatomically dubious animals. And one day, for what reason he doesn't entirely know, he scribbles a series of shoes in messy blue biro, with many looping and fuzzily sketched outlines, and labels them, like a field guide. 

Under a pair of Oxfords with a comic book-style diamond of reflected light at the toe: _Corporate arsehole. Especially dangerous if freshly shined. May eat your soul_. A pair of rather wibbly moccasins: _Either an old hippy or a trendy young person. Will invariably get stepped on on the Tube_. Dangerously pointy cowboy boots: _Usually alright, unless American, in which case RUN. Unless belonging to an actual cowboy, bonus if time travelling_. Under a pair of platform boots: _Probably David Bowie. Or you. These considerate people add interest to otherwise boring common or garden shoe spectrum_. 

He leaves it for Noel with a lazy dedication in one corner: _For you, you fetishist-- Julian_. Noel laughs when he sees it, for longer than Julian is quite sure his little doodle deserves, and tapes it up on his wall. 

~~~~~~ 

‘Oi, budge up.’ Julian pinches Noel's foot where his leg is stretched out over the otherwise empty sofa. 

'Ah, don't touch me!' Noel yelps, jerking away like Julian's touch stings, and Julian's left blinking down at him, nonplussed. 

'Never touch me?' he offers after a moment, with a wryly arched eyebrow. 'Not now, not when we're out buying corks, not ever? Isn't that my line?' 

Noel scowls faintly, self-conscious. 'Fuck off, it's just my feet.' 

'What, you ticklish?' Julian is embarrassingly ticklish; he shrieks and flails, and his limbs are simply too long to do that without injuring someone, but Noel's never shown any sign of it. 

'I just don't like people touching my feet, is all,' Noel shrugs, shifting to tuck his feet under him so that all Julian can see is a creased slice of skin half-buried under his thigh. The couch cleared, Julian flops down laconically. 'Or... looking at them,' Noel adds rather lamely. Julian gives him a cockeyed look. 

'You don't have a problem with my feet.' Noel has more or less the _opposite_ of a problem with Julian's feet. 

'Yeah, but your feet are alright, aren't they?' 

'Are they?' 

'Yeah! All articulated toes, and, wotsit, long tendons, nice ankles. Your feet probably walked right out of a Caravaggio painting.' It's one of the odder compliments Julian's ever got, and his face twists around the effort of attempting to figure out what to do with it. Noel pulls an elaborately gargoyleish face. 'My feet are just nasty; no-one needs to see that. All clammy and pale, like, I dunno, foetuses or something. Weird alien hands that never bothered to grow thumbs. _And_ my toes are hairy. And I've got calluses in between my toes, what's that about? I don't walk on the insides of my toes. Well disgusting.' 

'Probably all those pointy little bitch boots you've started cramming your feet into,' Julian says with overwrought reasonableness, and Noel snorts. 

'You been talking to Dee?' 

Julian just raises an inscrutable eyebrow, and lets that answer for him. 

At some point, Noel gets up to go for a piss or a beer, and when he comes back, he's wearing socks. One has little penguins playing tennis, the other green and orange stripes. Julian doesn’t comment, and Noel seems grateful. 

~~~~~~~ 

This time they’re not drunk, or high. They’re working, or they’re supposed to be working, on translating several years worth of live shows and radio and innumerable sketchbooks into something that’ll make viable television for their improbably commissioned BBC series. At least, Julian finds it improbable; Noel seems to be taking the whole thing in his stride. Julian is fucked off with the lot of it. It’d almost be easier to just start over from scratch, write something entirely new. He’s smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too many cups of coffee to try and kickstart his brain, and all it’s done is made him feel like the blood is actually vibrating in his veins, like someone’s hooked an overambitious subwoofer up to his pulmonary system. 

Noel’s chattering about costume ideas for Black Frost, how the one they used for the pilot was just a little too slick-looking, don’t you think Ju? They still wanna keep that DIY aesthetic, yeah, kids putting on a pageant, no reason for it to start looking all polished and professional just ‘cos they’re on telly, yeah? Getting about a dozen steps ahead of himself, like the peculiarities of costume design are the important thing to focus on before they’ve even got half their scripts written. He’s making little marks in half-written scripts as he talks, annotating them to correspond to his drawings, occasionally frowning or laughing and lobbing a suggestion over to Julian. 

He’s hunched over at the other end of the couch, his knees drawn up like some kind of Gollum creature. Julian knows if he were behind him, he’d be able to see the bobbles of his spine where his eternally-too-small t-shirt is surely riding up in the back. Julian’s long legs, because he at least is simply not built to sit like a child, are stretched out, one along the couch, almost knocking into Noel’s calf, the other bent to rest on the floor. Noel’s still talking, but Julian’s tuned him out, eyes focussing suddenly on his own foot, jerky and involuntary like a camera zooming in. Bare, brushing against a fold of Noel’s jeans; toes long and blunt-tipped, nails already starting to do that old man thing, veins standing out, the abrupt cuff around his ankle where his leg hair stops. Noel’s fault, that; he never paid more attention to his feet than was required to know his shoe size before Noel. 

Noel, who is still talking. It helps him to think aloud, Julian knows; he’d probably be doing the same even if Julian weren’t here. As Julian _is_ here, it’s his job to catch the open ends of Noel’s sentences, make them bigger or turn them ‘round corners or simply interrupt Noel mid-flow with something different. Except his brain still feels paralysed, camera shutter mid-flash, stuck staring at his own foot, and there are absolutely no ideas coming. 

Because Noel seems to _get it_ , or get something, at least, barrelling ahead with easy enthusiasm while Julian's brain is caught behind on some invisible snag, and Julian _wishes_ \-- he doesn't know. Something. Wishes he got whatever it Noel gets so effortlessly, or maybe wishes Noel _didn't_. It's an unflatteringly selfish thought. 

And then Julian bends his knee, moves his foot, and Noel sucks in an abrupt breath. Silent. But only for a moment; and then he lets the caught breath out in a hiccoughing little laugh. ‘Oi, you pervert, that’s my cock!’ 

Julian almost laughs too, because yes, yes Noel, it is, well observed, but he doesn't seem able to do that either, and Noel falters. His brows draw together under his fringe, and as open and expressive as his eyes always are, Julian can't tell whether it's fear or sudden, startled anticipation in them. The realisation that Julian isn't joking settles around both of them, treacly and suffocating, and Noel's breath hitches audibly, a stutter like a heart murmur. Under his foot, Noel is starting to get hard. 

He’s frozen, looking at Julian with huge eyes and his lips parted in a perfect diamond that draws attention to the crookedness of his front teeth. 

‘Julian...’ He says it in that way he has, swallowing the l and making his name into two syllables: Ju-yin. No-one else says his name like that, just Noel. 

‘If you’re taking the mick,’ Noel says, and he looks overwhelmed, like he’s just clinging to the edge of control or trying not to freak out, his voice low and rough, ‘I swear I will piss on everything you love.’ 

Julian doesn't think he can actually say anything, so he just flexes his foot against Noel’s groin. Old denim worn soft, the lumpish creases of fabric folded and sewn over, the long line of heat of Noel’s cock; he takes note of each disparate sensation with a vividness that his brain still hasn’t caught up with. And Julian’s seen Noel’s cock often enough; neither of them are shy about their bodies, but somehow, feeling it like that, swelling against the sole of Julian’s foot, the soft give of his bollocks against his heel, that’s… something else. 

Julian likes plans. He hasn’t got a plan for this. It feels like someone else’s momentum that he’s got caught up in, too late to take his foot back and pretend that he'd never done that, that Noel isn't visibly turned the fuck on because of Julian. 

He hasn’t said anything, and Noel is fighting hard not to grind up against his foot, cheeks dark and eyes glassy, even though Julian hasn’t really even done anything yet. Strung out like a skein of yet-to-be-twisted wool. He’s waiting for an explanation, or permission, or something. Julian curls his toes against Noel’s crotch, a rolling wave of motion that starts with his little toe like a lazy arpeggio on a piano. He feels the twitch under the sole of his foot, and Noel actually whimpers, a cracked little sound. Julian’s stomach roils with something that might just as easily be nausea as powerful thrill. 

‘ _Ju_ ,’ he whines, still sitting stock still. He’s starting to sound genuinely distressed. 

That does it, unsticks the thing in Julian’s throat, and he nods, meets Noel’s eyes. ‘Go on, then.’ 

For a flashing moment, the expression on Noel’s face is entirely one of relief, his slack lips stretching wide into a smile; this isn’t familiar ground they’re on, by far, but it’s safe ground. If Julian says so, then it must be. Something twists in Julian’s gut; he’s never quite known what to do with the amount of trust Noel puts in him. But it’s only for a moment, and then Noel’s sagging back against the couch, grinding up against Julian’s foot, and all Julian can see of his face is the ship-prow sharp underside of his chin. 

It’s as if his permission has released Noel from shame. Julian's still-- it's what he's always done, frantic nerves translated into apparent calm; Noel fondly mocks him for it backstage, seeing his jittering panic when everyone else thinks him wholly indifferent-- except for his right leg, the muscles flexing as he manipulates his foot against Noel, but Noel is all storm-tossed motion. His chest heaves and his head lolls, hips liquid and grinding up against Julian's foot, his legs bending and unbending, feet scuffing against cushions for better leverage. 

Julian feels, bizarrely, at a remove, despite the friction of denim and the throbbing heat of Noel’s cock under his foot. And maybe Noel picks up on that, or suspects it at least, because that's Noel's way, forever seeing too much or not enough, because when his head pitches down again, he catches Julian’s eyes. He smiles, open-mouthed and panting, face all flushed like a kid with a fever, and for a gut-punched moment, Julian wants to flee. He pictures himself jerking himself up off the sofa and stumbling away, leaving Noel hard and confused and annoyed, Noel shouting at him later about _what the fuck was that, Barratt_? 

He might even have done it, except that Noel’s hand flashes down and seizes his ankle, and for the first time, Julian loses his breath. Noel's hand on him, holding his gaze, and he flushes all over, suddenly intensely aware of the feeling of the inside of his own jeans against his knees and thighs. 

When he finds the lost breath, it strangles out on something like a groan, and he realises with a throb of heat that he feels all the way down in his bones that he's hard too. Noel seems to have noticed, and his expression as he stares is almost unnervingly of _want_ before he throws his head back again, never letting go his grip on Julian's foot. 

Noel's dragged him out of his head, and suddenly, watching him, Julian is _fascinated_. Noel's hand is hard on his ankle, thumb pressed to the knob of bone and palm mashed against the dorsa of his foot, nearly shoving it against him, holding it still for him to grind desperately against. 

' _Ju_ ,' he groans, and Julian swallows. Noel's mouth is very pink; it's distracting. 'Oh, fuck, Julian, you fuckin'-- filthy, oh my god, yeah, fuck--' 

He rotates his ankle, pushing up and across the rigid bar of Noel's cock, shifting to nudge at his balls with his heel, and Noel _whines_ , actually whines like a fucking puppy. Even through the denim, Julian can feel his dick jerk, and then, after one more rough grind, his whole body seizes up as he comes hard in his pants. His jaw and eyes are clenched shut, and his fingers dig nearly painfully into the soft flesh between Julian's anklebones. 

And then the moment passes and Noel’s laughing, looking more than a little shell-shocked. ‘Wow, that was, uh. That was.’ 

Julian feels one of his eyebrows lift, and the hectic coital flush deepens on Noel’s cheeks. But he bites his lip, jerks his chin up at Julian. ‘Did you want some help with that?’ 

He’s still hard, cock throbbing and warmth hazy in his arse and thighs, and he imagines like a dirty flip-book all the ways Noel might _help_. Hands or mouth (and Julian’s seen him laughingly, drunkenly deep-throat enough beer bottles and ice lollies like it’s the funniest thing in the world to know he could) or just climbing into his lap and grinding until Julian comes in his jeans too, a pointed sort of turn-about being fair play. He shakes his head. 

‘No.’ His voice comes out scratchy and low from the extended silence, and he rubbers his face and clears his throat. Fuck, he could do with a beer. ‘Maybe later, yeah? Let’s get stuck back into this lot first.’ 

Noel’s looking at him with an oddly canny expression; crooked, both amused and confused. ‘You’re a mental case,’ he informs Julian, and his tone is so bizarrely appreciative that it makes Julian laugh. Noel brightens, stretching and pulling an elaborately disgusted face. 

‘I’m stealing a pair of your pants,’ he says, as he clambers over the back of the couch, and then interrupts himself with a cackle. ‘Eugh, I’m all squishy!’ He gropes at his crotch and pulls a face. ‘That is properly disgusting.’ 

'Best, otherwise things'll start to grow in there. You'll have a whole ecosystem, a swamp full of blind mutated sperms who've never seen the light of day.' 

Noel hoots. His laugh makes him look like a marionette. Julian half suspects that that particular hilariously revolting image might well end up in a painting at some point. 

‘I’m getting a beer,’ Julian shouts after Noel, pushing himself up off the settee as well. ‘You want one?’ 

The answer comes slightly muffled. ‘Aw, cheers, yeah!’ 

Julian levers the caps off a couple of bottles, and takes a long, grateful swallow, slightly too deep; he can feel the carbonation fuzzing up from his throat to his nose, and he shakes his head like a dog. The lino in the kitchenette is clammy against his bare feet, and he gives his toes a wiggle, and then slips a hand down to brush experimentally over his crotch. Arousal flares, lazy and easy, at the touch, and he briefly contemplates going after Noel and telling him not to bother with clean pants. He dismisses the thought after a moment. Nah. 

Oddly, he feels better now. They'll get some work done, and Noel will tease him about what a freak he is for writing their _very important BBC comedy series_ with a big old stiffy, and whenever the time feels right, Julian will (admittedly probably very awkwardly), ask for that help. And it’ll be all right. Fucking weird, probably, but all right. 

It takes, as it turns out, two beers each before Noel informs Julian that his erection is putting him off, which seems as good a time as any to ask. Noel laughs, shaking his head. 'Fair warning, I'm not giving you a foot job.' 

Julian wrinkles his nose and huffs an awkward sort of laugh. 'I wasn't gonna ask.' 

'I know, I know, my feet are well grotty.' Noel's mouth twists and he fiddles compulsively with his hair, self-conscious for just a moment. 

Instead, he gives Julian what he calls, with slightly alarming enthusiasm, ‘the first blowjob I’ve given to an actual penis!’ and Julian almost chokes, thinking again of all those beer bottles and ice lollies. Noel beams up at him afterwards, red-lipped and bright eyed and pleased with his efforts, and Julian can't help his whole face scrunching up into laughter that's somewhere between shocked and disgusted and delighted. It is, indeed, all right. Fucking weird, but all right.


End file.
